The anxiety I feel in these moments, after the rush of emotion, is overwhelming. It takes my breath away. I find myself praying to God to protect them both. I would sacrifice anything to keep them healthy and safe. Those tender moments make me want to keep them to myself and never let go. Letting go will be the hardest thing I ever do. I love them so. And these moments remind me the time is close at hand. Soon we’ll have to make college applications and go on campus visits. Trying to keep track of the youngling is becoming a sport — I have to put GPS on her. She’s making the most of high school and I find myself actually trying to keep up.

My youngest walks in and I don’t even bother to hide the tears. What’s wrong, she asked, what’s wrong. I just shake my head — can’t talk. She is relentless and won’t stop. I refuse to answer and change the subject. What am I going to say, I’m crying because you’re growing up? I miss my babies? I worry each and every day that you’ll be safe? I just keep typing and hope that ultimately she’ll be distracted.

I intend for you both to grow up, complete your college education, in careers that turn you on, find nice boys (nice, nice boys), have the wedding of your choosing (the one I never had — shameless, but at least I admit it; I’ll make sure your wishes are heard and if possible and within reason, honored), buy a house (scratch that) a home, give me grandchildren, don’t give up on your passions and stay true to yourself (keep exploring what that means), be good to each other and always give to others. Then just allow the rest to unfold (fade to blurry sunset). I’ve got it all planned out, preferably in the aforementioned order — now just accommodate me.

Meet the parents were ringing in my ears as I tried to focus on his face. What did that mean? What do you mean, what does it mean? I asked myself. Everyone knows that means something! Doesn’t it?

“Of course,” I stammered. I was embarrassed — where were my manners?

Details were (and are) not his forte. I was lucky to get the exact date and some vague sense of what to wear (he would be wearing a suit). I was single and working and decided a new outfit was called for. I bought a sweater dress, tights and patent leather flats. It was the eighties — big hair, big earrings. I was verging on a dark-haired Madonna.

I can remember being very nervous and not eating all day. When I got home from work I changed quickly into my new outfit, put on more makeup and tried to breathe deeply. I was living at home at the time and my mother noticed my butterflies.

“No worries,” she tried to assure, “How bad could it be?”

Michael picked me up and along the way described his parents home, a 4000 square foot condo with a 4 car garage and a Cadillac in every bay — I couldn’t fathom. At some point during the drive he mentioned that this was a get together for his brother.

“Oh?” I asked. “Is it a special occasion?”

“His birthday,” he replied, absently.

“His, his birthday?… but I don’t have a gift!?” I protested.

“Oh, it’s not that kind of birthday party” he responded.

“Party!?! You didn’t tell me it was a party!”

“Didn’t I tell you?” he asked. If only I had buck for how many times I would hear that phrase over the next 23 years…

“No” I said flatly. “You didn’t.”

I didn’t want to appear petulant but I was really irritated. When he said, “I want you to meet my parents” I didn’t realize he meant, “the family” or should I say “mi familia?”

I was and am kind of shy and I wouldn’t know a soul except for him. I had dated him long enough to know that he was a social butterfly at parties and my mouth was dry and my palms started to sweat.

When we arrived and entered the house, we did so through the garage which led into the kitchen.

There, on the kitchen table, was Vic’s birthday cake.

A cake shaped as a pair of breasts…with cherries on top.

At first, it didn’t register. Was that? Are those? I stood there, staring, stunned, not knowing what to say. I knew very little about his family, his siblings. I looked over at Michael who was trying to suppress a chuckle. Upon seeing my face, he quickly recovered and shrugged and suggested we move along. I reluctantly followed.

I was introduced to several people on the way down to the lower level where I met his father and mother. Michael’s father (who he is named after) was an imposing, burly Italian with a drink in his hand. He wore a pinky ring. I felt like I had met a member of the Rat Pack or a Corleone. My surroundings certainly re-enforced that first impression as well. It read like a kind of rumpus room with a bar, a painting of his doberman and formal portraits of the family.

I heard his mother before I met her — a high, boisterous laugh. It was so distinctive. There was no missing it, like a cartoon laugh. From there it was his grandparents, both sides, and all of his siblings and their respective spouses. I even met the first grandchild, Joey, held in his mothers’ arms.

To say that I was overwhelmed was an understatement. I wanted to run for the nearest exit and phone someone for a ride. I don’t know if Michael sensed this, but he asked if he could get me a drink. I nodded and he asked, “how about a martini?”

I replied, “I’ve never had one before.”

“Let me make you one, I think you’ll like it.”

So off he went, while I tried to chat with his sister-in-law and his brother Joe. Turns out Joe and I were in the same grade at the same junior high. I knew that we had attended the same school and I remembered him, but we did not hang in the same circles. I was a shy, wall flower of an awkward girl in junior high — braces, glasses, zits and big early-blooming breasts. Awkward doesn’t begin to describe those miserable years.

Joe, on the other hand, was a “hood,” a bit of a trouble-maker with long hair, wearing a jean jacket, a desperado baby mustache, bell bottoms — dangerous.

He looked much different now, with a wife and baby. Very respectable. But there was something mischievous in his face as he excused himself while Judy and I began talking about baby Joey in her arms. Michael’s mother and grandmother joined us to chat as well.

Joe eventually returned to our conversation, holding a yearbook in his arms.

Our junior high yearbook.

A yearbook with a very, very unfortunate picture of me at 13.

Could I die? Could I crawl under a rock? It was one thing to be thrown into an uncomfortable situation (boob cake, the entire, extended family, etc.) but to be humiliated like this? In front of Michael’s parents while his brother had a good laugh at my expense? I looked over at Michael who was fetching my second martini.

“Look, honey, he’s got our junior high year book…” my eyes were BEGGING him to intercede.

“Hey, let me see that,” was his response. My heart sank. Obtuse.

Judy excused herself to feed the baby and Joe and the yearbook disappeared only to be replaced by a tall, leggy blond who introduced herself as Barb. Barb was a lingerie model. Divorced with a child, turns out Barb and my boyfriend used to date. The evening was in a death spiral and the only thing that was going to soften the blow was another martini. What the hell?

Without warning, she reached over and grabbed Michael’s crotch.

“What does she have that I don’t have?” she asked him.

“Me,” was Michael’s sarcastic response. In true Michael fashion he looked around, impressed with himself and his pithy comeback. Again, obtuse.

“Oh dear,” commented his mother, trying to pretend she hadn’t seen anything.

I put my drink down and headed for the stairs.

“Wait a minute,” he grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “I didn’t know she was going to be here, she is a family friend and I didn’t know she would act that way.”

I opted not to speak my mind, “with friends like that what should I make of your family?”

I was trapped with no way out. Had I been a stronger, more determined sort, I would have walked. But I felt more helpless than anything else. Michael’s brother Frank decided music was in order, just in the nick of time, and so we danced. Beatles. My saving grace, really, “Twist and Shout.”

Turns out there was no food at this shindig, really, it was a cocktail party. So, after all the trauma of the evening, the martini’s and the lack of food, I was zonked, not drunk really but sooooo tired I could barely stand.

The party had dissipated and Michael and I volunteered to clean up. We said very little to each other. I was trying to clear my head of alcohol and to process what had just transpired. We sat down on the sofa in the pool room for a little respite.

Fast forward to 3am.

Something woke me. It was a ringing. A telephone ringing, ringing, ringing. I was vaguely becoming conscious when I realized I had fallen asleep with my contacts still in my eyes… my hard contacts. I kind of freaked. I had injured one of my corneas previously by doing just this, so I ran to the bathroom with my purse and put some drops in my eyes.

As I was looking at myself in the mirror and squirting my eyes, I slowly put two and two together:  the ringing that had woken me was likely my father, because I had a sinking feeling that it was an obscene hour and I was in deep shit.

I ran into the pool room and grabbed Michael by the collar and shook him awake.

“What time is it?” I demanded.

He was groggy and non-responsive.

“For god sake, what time is it?” I shook him harder and he opened his eyes and looked at me.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Oh my God!” I screamed, looking at his watch. “It’s 3 o’clock in the morning.”

“Someone’s been calling. I heard the phone ringing over and over. I’m sure it was my father. He’s going to kill me.”

Then I looked at Michael and he read my mind, “He’s going to kill you!”

We grabbed our coats and raced to the car. All the way back to my house Michael was reasoning with me.

“You’re 23 years old…”

“I know, but I live at home and there are some house rules. It’s not the time, really. I can stay out as late as I want, but I always check in and let them know! So they won’t worry. And I didn’t call.”

Unbeknownst to me at the time, not only had my father called Michael’s father demanding to know where his little girl was, but he also tracked down Michael’s room mate demanding to know where I was. Both were mystified and did not have any idea of where we were. Both had thought we had departed long ago and didn’t realize we were still in the basement.

We pulled up into my driveway and all the lights in the house were on. In spite of all his apparent confidence, Michael ran me to the door, pecked me on the cheek and left me there. Abandoned me to face the fire alone.

Duly noted.

I walked into the house, into the kitchen where a fresh pot of coffee had been brewed and drunk, with maybe an inch left in the pot. I slowly made my way into the family room. Earlier in the evening I had imagined sharing the awful details with my mom who would surely offer me comfort and sympathy. No way in hell would there be a soul left in my camp now. I found my mother and father, in their robes and pajamas, both holding coffee cups, sitting on the hearth.

It was obvious Mom had been crying. “You’ll just never know until you have one of your own…”

Dad on the other hand was grinding his teeth, his famous vein throbbing down the side of his head. Like a child I felt like dropping to my knees and begging for forgiveness.

I mustered up some courage and I said, “I’m really sorry to have worried you. We fell asleep after we cleaned up the basement, honest. I had no idea it was 3am until I heard a phone ringing. Nothing happened. I usually call. It was unintentional, but I can understand why you’re upset.”

“You fell asleep?” my father repeated, incredulous. “Where is your date? Why didn’t he come in?”

I had no answer for him. Between the horrific night I just had with his family and my parents, sitting there exhausted and ashen, my big “meet the parents” moment couldn’t have been any further from my fantasy. There was nothing left to say. In trying to make a good impression with his family, I left my own family with a horrible impression.

And with that I went to bed.

I found myself planning a luxurious summer vacation — reserving ten days, not the usual seven. Not this time. There was a little extra cash in the kitty, so I opted for a ritzy condo complex with all the whistles and bells; a towering white stucco building with aqua blue shimmering pools both indoors and out.  It so happened that my youngest, Erica Rose, would be celebrating her birthday while we were there. I was able to shop, wrap and ship the gifts down in advance of her big day as well as order her birthday cake from a local bakery. Oh yes, I was in the zone. The MOMMY ZONE.

Feeling smug, I packed for the trip. We even brought our babysitter along. Who’s the man? I’m the man.

Tiffany was a twenty something elementary school teacher whom we adored. She arrived on our doorstep, having answered an ad we placed in the local paper for a sitter. She was quite devoted to our girls. The idea of a summer vacation in the sun was more than appealing to this single, working girl and she gladly accepted our offer to vacation with us.

I always feel like a kid, even at the ripe age of 46, on that first early morning of vacation. When my father would roust my brother and I out of bed, but we were already awake, too excited to sleep. I’m still the same way and so I was already up on our first day of this vacation helping Michael, my husband, get the troops settled in the car just before dawn. Cara, our oldest, along with Erica and Tiffany, piled in still wearing their pajamas and debated where our first Starbucks stop would be on the way down.

The car, an SUV (smirk, 8 years ago), was packed to the gills as we headed down to the Gulf of Mexico (which sounds lavish but who am I kidding, we were headed to the Redneck Riviera). Nonetheless, I was blissfully content.

The trip down Highway 65 included stops at my favorite haunts on the way: Calhoun’s in Nashville for the best ribs ever; the famous Foley farm market, Burriss’s, where I stocked up on all my favorite produce, like juicy, fresh-picked strawberries, green beans, and peas. Satsuma’s, my all-time favorite fruit of the south, unfortunately are only available in the fall. I had to forgo their pleasure this trip, for it was June. Only a minor inconvenience, I reasoned.

We arrived at the complex; the condo was perfect. Why? 3 beautiful bedrooms on the Gulf of Mexico with all the amenities we could want. The girls were enthralled with their surroundings. The babysitter had her own bedroom. All was right with the world. We were the Jones’s.

The next day I picked up the cake and we celebrated Erica’s birthday with royal reds, deep-water shrimp indigenous to the area and tasting like lobster. It is truly one of our favorite meals when we vacation in the south.

The following day we welcomed Michael’s cousin and his family to the condo. They lived in Mississippi where Billy was stationed as an Army recruiter. We went to the pool and beach, had dinner and ate the cheesecake Danella had baked and brought especially for us. It was delicious. However, the youngest of Billy’s children had not been feeling well. A spider bite we were told and Billy and the family headed back to Biloxi a little earlier than planned.  We turned in for the night.

The next day we headed out to the water park. Once again, another first for us, but we were determined this would be a vacation in which we indulged ourselves. I am not the great adventurer when it comes to amusement parks, so Tiffany and I headed to the lazy river while Michael, Cara and Erica headed for the inner tubes and the big, twisting slides.

After a couple of hours of drifting in the warm sunshine, we all met up at the wave pool. Now I must admit, I really enjoy wave pools. I guess it’s because they mimic the rhythm of the ocean, but I was really having a good time, giggling with the girls with each rush of water.

After a short while of drifting with the waves I got a very strange feeling; the kind you can’t explain. I don’t know if something happens during childbirth, but I truly believe mothers have a sixth sense when it comes to their kids. And something just wasn’t right. The hair on the back of my neck was up as I turned around to see my oldest, some several feet away, and the look on her face said it all.

She was about to blow chow and I had to get her out of the pool before she cleared it on her own.

Try running in a wave pool some time…

I barely made it to her and told her to hold on. Actually I believe my words were more along the lines of “suck it up.”  She could not, would not throw up in that pool.

I don’t know where I found the strength to lift her up and out of the pool but I grabbed her and ran to the public bathrooms. I got her there in the nick of time.

What erupted in that stall defies description.

I was alarmed and extremely grateful we had made it, but the occupants of that bathroom beat a hasty exit. It was just the two of us, talking thru the door. Eventually she let me in. By that time she was sitting on the toilet and shaking but she thought the worst was over. I moved her to a chaise lounge in the sun and covered her with a towel. Too much sun, wave pool and corn dogs I reasoned. She was white as a ghost and lay very still under the warm beach towels.

One by one the other members of our vacation joined us and after a while we determined it was time to head back to the condo. Cara was not improving and she needed to go to bed. We got to my beautiful Jeep Grand Cherokee with black leather interior and piled into the car. All the while I was talking to Cara and reassuring her that this situation would quickly pass.

Once in, and with everyone belted, Cara began complaining again of not feeling well. Michael looked up to see her pale face in the rear view mirror and then turned his head to say something to her when without warning she vomited so forcefully that the ensuing projectile literally blasted the sunglasses right off his face! He was speechless and drenched. Can something be shocking and funny at the same time? I tried not to laugh. I didn’t want to appear insensitive to Cara. Needless to say my leather interior was never quite the same again.

“Not to worry,” (I was, after all, supermom this week), “We’ve got plenty of towels,” and with that I got out and went to the back of the car to retrieve one for her and another for Michael and the car, too. By the time we got to the condo parking lot Cara requested that we just leave her in the back seat to die.

Michael picked her up and carried her in and then went to take a shower. The next couple of hours were horrible for her. I’ve never seen so much (or so little, eventually) erupt from every orifice of a young person. Could food poisoning really do this? I was getting concerned. In between bouts in the bathroom I gave her spoonfuls of water or Gatorade, hoping that some form of hydration was better than nothing. She dozed on and off.

I sat down at the kitchen island and tried to relax. I called a girlfriend to chat. We were catching up about the usual odds and ends when out of the corner of my eye I saw a head of red hair flying by me. Tiffany had covered the full length of the condo in seconds, ripped open the bathroom door and began violently throwing up.

At that very moment, I knew, with great certainty, that we were all in trouble — deep, deep trouble. For, it occurred to me that it was not the corn dog Cara ate, no, this was something else entirely. And with an overwhelming sense of foreboding I ended my phone call.  “I gotta go Jeanette. I’ll call you back later,” and I tried not to panic. A little self-doubt was creeping in to Superwoman’s psyche.

I went to check on Tiffany. Now Tiffany is always a “glass is half full” kind of person. In fact, the glass is just plain full, or even overflowing. She brushed her flaming red curls from her forehead as she rubbed a wet washcloth over her face and proclaimed in her usual cheery voice, “I feel much better now, really.”

If I heard that once in the coming 24 hours, I heard it 27 times — for Tiff and Cara kept their doors open and actually kept score. No sooner had Tiffany proclaimed her wellness, than she fell to her knees and threw up again. This went on and on, always with the same response or denial depending on how you chose to look at it (I am clearly in the camp of “the glass is half empty” kind of person.)   “No really, I feel much better now,” she would say with a grin.  Two of our three bathrooms were now occupied and Erica said, “Mama, I don’t feel so good.” Michael, who had been conspicuously missing walked into the room.

Now panic was rising in me. I grabbed him by the collar.  “Get out while you can. Go to the store and get as much Gatorade and Saltine crackers as you can. This is about to get very, very ugly. GO!”   He looked around at the events unfolding, grabbed his baseball cap and left.

I began taking inventory of the situation. How many clean towels do we have? And sheets? Ice chips, washcloths, and clean pajamas. I speculated out loud if we would even get our security deposit back at this point…

While Cara and Tiff were making sport of the situation, calling out to each other their status, Erica was sitting on the sofa trying to watch television and ignore her stomach. I began wondering, what was taking Michael so long. The grocery was, after all, right across the street from our condo. It occurred to me he might be avoiding the return trip.

What seemed like hours later, Michael walked in, eating a Whopper from Burger King. He said nothing. He poured himself a great big glass of milk and pulled out a bag of Oreo cookies and began eating them and drinking the milk with gusto, like a guy on death row eating his last meal. In fact, he inhaled a significant quantity of food right in front of me. I was horrified.

Didn’t he understand what was about to happen to him?

“Where have you been for God sake?” I yelled.

He proudly announced, “I just put out a fire in the parking lot!”  “What?” now you need to understand, over the years I could send Michael out for a gallon of milk and he would come back 2 hours later with a microwave, no milk, and a ridiculous explanation of his absence.

“Seriously, some of the shrubs in one of the concrete islands dividing the parking lot had caught on fire.  I ran into the lobby and told them to call 911, grabbed an extinguisher and put out the fire” he was beaming, so very proud of himself. While mayhem was exploding in our condo, he was putting out a brush fire.

As I watched him swig down the last of his milk, I finally asked, “Are you crazy?” to which he responded, “I figured this was going to be my last meal for a while, so I might as well make it a good one”  I stood there, incredulous.

Erica started complaining loudly about her stomach, and Mr. Sensitive but his soda cup down on the coffee table in front of her and said, “Here, throw up in this.”  She looked up at him in disgust and got up and ran to our bathroom and the round robin began in earnest. All three bathrooms were now in full rotation and I was exhausted. I lay down in our bedroom and willed myself not to succumb to my stomach.

“What can I do?” Michael asked.

“Go stay with the girls. They’re both weak from this, they may need help,” I was whispering at this point with a washcloth on my face.

“What? Are you serious?” subtext: “I didn’t actually mean it, I was just trying to sound, you know, supportive.”

I pulled the washcloth off my face and looked him dead in the eye, “Am I serious?” I said in a low, menacing voice, “yes I’m serious. I need a break.”

“Where should I? How should I…” He was at a loss for words. A caregiver, he was not.

“Lay down in between the twin beds on the floor. Maybe the three of you can get some sleep,” I suggested.

“Okay” — but his facial expression read like I was sending him to the gas chamber. Because, dear reader, what you don’t know is this: Michael has a hair trigger gag reflex. If he so much as hears someone vomiting, he’ll lose it. So I knew what was going thru his mind.

And sure enough, I wasn’t horizontal for more than a few minutes when the bedroom door burst open. There was Michael standing in the doorframe breathing deeply.

“Cara is (gulp) throwing up (inhale) in her bed! And I (swallow, hard)… can’t… take it!”  With that he dropped to all fours, crawled to the bathroom, threw up repeatedly and passed out cold on the floor. A 250lb Italian stallion with the wherewithal of a mama’s boy had played nursemaid for all of 30 seconds. I sighed, standing over him, shaking my head. I went to go help Cara.

It was the middle of the night before Cara had begun drinking Gatorade. Tiff refused assistance and Erica was in the middle of the violence. I was up and down. I could hear the constant rattle of ice as Tiff scooped it into a cup from the ice machine. Yes, we even had a state of the art ice machine. She sucked on the tiny cubes all night long.

As I lay there in the dark willing my own self “to suck it up” I wondered how I was going to explain all of this to Tiffany’s parents? I needed to make sure she didn’t aspirate in the middle of the night. She seemed to be sleeping when I walked into her bedroom to check on her. I leaned over her face. I just needed to make sure she was breathing. Unfortunately, she opened her eyes to find a stranger in the dark just inches from her face. Of course, I succeeded in frightening her so badly that she fell out of bed, screaming.

I checked on Michael, still on the bathroom floor. He too was breathing. I threw a blanket over him, turned out the lights and lay back down, talking to myself and ignoring my symptoms. The last man (woman) standing. How could this have happened to my perfect vacation? There was a heavy air of irony enveloping the room …

As dawn broke, I found Cara eating a cracker in her bed. A good sign I thought. Tiff wanted nothing to do with food. Erica was still visiting porcelain but at least she was slowing down. I got Michael up off the floor and gave him some crackers and Gatorade. He seemed stunned. I sat him in the great room in front of the television and gave him the remote control — I thought the familiar would be comforting to him.

As everyone began recuperating the next day, I gave myself permission to get sick. Of course, I was sicker than all the others, enduring a cold on top of the stomach flu. While the rest of the family was on the mend and visiting the zoo, I was visiting the doc and ordered to stay in bed. Seems I had a touch of vertigo to boot. The elevator put me on the floor and to add insult to injury, I couldn’t go anywhere near windows or the balcony. I couldn’t even enjoy the view of the ocean. Of course, it had occurred to me that I had earned this — my penance.

Michael put in a call to Billy to let him know what had just happened in the event they too might have gotten sick. It turned out the ride home was more like a bad horror movie only unfolding in slow motion with almost everyone but Billy, the driver, throwing up in the car during the 4-hour drive. Strike that, throwing up in their skirts, diaper bags, anything within reach. I can’t bring myself to disclose the other expulsions; it’s too graphic and disconcerting.

I imagined everything that had happened to us only in a very confined space with no plumbing.  When Billy finally pulled into the driveway, he fell out of the car and allowed himself to throw up. He declared he would have to condemn the van for no amount of cleaning would make it habitable again.

For it turns out, dear reader, it wasn’t the spider bite after all.

To this day, we greet Billy and his family with hospital masks.  We left our vacation early, seven days, not ten and headed home in silence. Perhaps I should have titled this, “Pride Goeth Before the Fall…”

My earliest memories take me back to Philadelphia in the 1960’s. My parents had moved us to Indianapolis but made the road trip back to Philadelphia several times a year. My mother wanted to maintain close ties to her family and wanted us by extension to understand and enjoy those bonds as well.

It was basically the Brady bunch of Philadelphia, 3 boys and 3 girls along with an entire neighborhood that would move in and out of this massive house or show up for dinner un-announced. This was unheard of to me, but there was always room at the table for an extra plate and always food for one more.

My uncles entered my life — larger than life through my young eyes. Uncle Dick, the younger of the two, had a very old large house on Gowen Avenue, 3 stories high, the kind you might read about in a romance novel. I spent a lot of time on the third floor, sort of a hen’s nest, learning the ways of the world from my cousins.  For instance my cousins taught me how to shave my legs, how to use socks instead of curlers for my hair, how to shop for separates, and much more. What my brother was learning one floor below I dare not ask.

This house was a wonder in size and nooks and cranny’s. It was always filled with people and a lot of food and laughter. And if the front porch was always the designated meeting place, the back stairway was always the source of the best information.

Until my first visit to this house I had no idea homes could have two stairways. The very nature of it amplified any number of conversations going on in the house, especially the kitchen. So at night, after we were supposed to be in bed, we would tiptoe down the hallway and creep carefully, halfway down the stairs and sit together in our pajamas listening to the adults carry on about “family secrets” and suppress giggles about our discoveries!

Uncle Bill, the oldest, has dark features, a tan, irascible but charming at the same time, definitely black Irish. He and his family lived a little further out of the city, almost the suburbs. I spent a lot of time with the youngest cousin, Annie, since we were close in age and in temperament. We would walk down to the local drug store and get penny candy during my visits and stay up late gabbing about everything.

Uncle Dick, the quiet one, has always been a man of few words but deep convictions and a life demonstrating the care and well-being of others. He is always there for someone in need. Deeply devoted to his faith, he became one of the first married deacons of the Catholic church in Philadelphia, ministering to others as he career with the railroad wound down. Trains have been one of his passions and his railroad sets would always come out each Christmas. And we, as kids, found endless fascination with the very intricate layouts he would construct.

So my childhood memories of my Philadelphia trips are filled with love and wonder. Big city, big personalities, opening up a big universe to me.

As I got older, we traveled back less and less. My life and interests didn’t include those ties to extended family and while I wouldn’t say we lost touch, the relationships definitely changed as we all grew up and tried to find our way in this world. But every once and a while one of the unc’s or cousins would pop up unexpectedly.

For instance, Uncle Bill would write to me, faithfully, while I was living in England for a semester during college. He is an excellent writer and I really enjoy our conversations. I don’t always agree with him, but he’s very articulate, forceful, and you always know where you stand with him. I could not believe he would take time out to write to me and I really looked forward to his letters, so far away from home. Filled not only with family news, but observations of his time and travel throughout Europe and advice about experiences I should have. I have kept them to this day.

My cousin Betty Ann, who stayed with us over my long wedding weekend, was front and center during the unfolding disaster and rallied the troops to plug up all the holes in the day that continued to spring forth leaks. (I never tell prospective bride’s about my wedding day. It’s a cautionary tale.) Betty Ann also knitted my firstborn a beautiful baby blanket, that again, I have kept. And the list goes on and on. Despite the distance, family obligations, and just life getting in the way, we have remained in touch.

Fast forward to 2006. My father died after a long bout with non-hodgkins lymphoma. Who arrived at my mother’s door but my two uncles carrying support and Tullamore Dew? Within the year, we would return the favor. Their wives died within 24 hours of each other and they are now living the lives of widowers. They spend more time together as do their families and somehow, have found time lately to spend time with me.

I have made the trip back several times in the last couple of years. I have been drawn to their family stories and I’ve been capturing as much of it as possible. In part, because I’d like to get it into some type of historical context for all of us but I’m also inspired to write and some of that inspiration has found it’s way to my blog, Bashful Bard, in the form of short childrens stories.

They recently visited Indianapolis, driving the distance in two parts. Somehow they managed to stay in one of the few dry towns in Ohio. They were not amused. It’s a serious matter for two crusty Irishmen, footloose and fancy free, not to be able to enjoy a whiskey in a bar.  But they perservered and made their way back to us, where we celebrated their arrival and cooked and shared great conversation.

Uncle Bill had learned that I was interested in fly fishing and surprised me with an old fly rod and reel he had had for a long time. He has always been active and the outdoors is where he would prefer to be, hunting and fishing with his sons. So much to my surprise, we went to the local fly store and he outfitted me with some supplies and gave me a few lessons in the back yard. I was deeply touched.

He asked me, “why fly fishing?” and I told him I thought it would be a great way for me to enjoy the outdoors and I also think it would be, contemplative. I could tell he was taken by surprise by my response. “Contemplative?” he replied slowly. He looked down, rubbed his chin and then acknowledged, “that’s a great way to look at fly fishing. It is indeed time for contemplation.”

He seemed pleased, almost as if he was passing along a gift. A rod & reel? A hobby? A family tradition? I’m just happy for the time spent with them.

Stocking Stuffers:

• EcoTools Bamboo Brushes: I love these brushes! They’re bamboo and natural bristle, inexpensive, and environmentally friendly. I found these at Target, and they feel GREAT on the skin. If you or someone special you’re buying for is into mineral makeup, EcoTools has a set of kabuki brushes as well!

• Makeup sets are always a hit especially when they’re pinching pennies, going to school and working. There’s something a little decadent about getting a set at Christmas and some of their favorite brands (MAC and Clinique) always come out with something fun (last year they got false eyelash kits!)

• Roll-on perfume: growing up in the ’70s I remember roll-on fragrance and now it’s back and sooo convenient to keep in your purse. How about something like… Juicy Couture’s Couture Couture available at Sephora?

• Rosebud salve, their lips are always, always, always chapped and I can’t keep them in lip balm. Smith’s Rosebud Salve has been a staple for pretty much every stocking and Easter basket since they were little.

• Earrings, studs and hoops are always needed and I stock up on the basics especially in silver.

• Inkjet cartridges: I know this doesn’t sound glamorous but inkjet cartridges are expensive and one of my daughters is a design student so, she just might get cartridges in her stocking.

• Phone covers, fun and something they wouldn’t treat themselves to and practical. Check out these funky covers from SwitchEasy

• Knitted laptop sleeves, like the ones I saw on Etsy! Awesome, and I thought, OMG, how cool, and then I wondered if with a beginning skill set in knitting I could pull these off — stay tuned,

• Gift Card’s from Starbucks, Target, Anthropology, iTunes: all of these come in handy throughout the year and give them the feeling they can shop without dipping into their savings. My husband feels these are impersonal, but the girls LOVE getting them.

• Magazine subscriptions: these are relatively inexpensive and offer up a nice break once a month, a little treat that once again they wouldn’t purchase for themselves.

• Eyebrow and lip wax, a perennial favorite from their preferred salon.

• And a specific request this year, fleece: jackets/vests. I’d like to investigate good quality jackets at a reasonable price point. Will look at Lands End, but are there others I should consider? GAP?

Both of our families maintained strong holiday traditions. Both expected their children to continue to participate after marriage. Allowances were made once grandchildren entered the scene but only specifically for a few hours on Christmas day.

Early on, this methodology worked for us. It was a fair and even distribution of our much sought after time and attention. But truth be told, some years it was simply the fulfilling of expectations and being dutiful children. On more than a few occasions it caused marital strife.

And so it came to pass that my first Thanksgiving, mine to host and mine to cook and mine to serve came about as a result of family tension. So much tension, in fact, that my husband made the decision to forgo his family’s Thanksgiving. The story has been retold many times however this is the first time I’ve actually written it down to re-tell it in this forum.

Given my passion for food and my desire to pull off “the best Thanksgiving ever” (I was in a full-blown Martha at that point) I believe it could be said that I was on top of my game in planning for the big day. And the plan was to host our immediate family along with a few close friends. I was secretly thrilled, giddy in fact — a right of passage. Granted, I got in on a technicality, but hey, if that’s what it took, far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth, or so I thought…

The day arrived and everything was falling into place. The turkey had been defrosting in the fridge for a couple of days and was glistening with butter rubbed into the skin by hand; the giblets were simmering on the stove top and ready for grinding into the gravy. Pies had been baked the day before: a perfect apple pie with butter crust and a traditional pumpkin pie with whipped cream laced with bourbon. The herb and onion stuffing had been prepared and was awaiting the oven. Feeling generally satisfied, a feeling I have come to know now as pride (as in go-eth before the fall), I turned to my husband and brother who were pouring drinks in the kitchen.

“I’m waiting for the oven to preheat. When it beeps, would you put the turkey in the oven? It’s ready to go and I’d like to run upstairs and get a quick shower.”

The response was in the affirmative and I headed upstairs to hit the shower and put on the new outfit I had purchased just for the big day, something in fall colors. When asked, I would respond coyly, “this old thing?”

I came downstairs in my bathrobe with my hair up in a towel and took a peak into the kitchen. Not so curiously, my brother and husband were once again in the kitchen making drinks. I glanced over at the stovetop to check on the giblets and noticed one of them had attempted to set the timer.

“You guys,” I laughed, “thanks for putting the turkey in — I know you were trying to be helpful, but the timer is set wrong.”

My husband looked over at the stove and a look of alarm quickly darkened his face. “Oh my God,” he said, “we turned the self-cleaning mode on!”

My brother said,”what do you mean, “we”?”

“No you didn’t,” I said. “And anyway, the safety arm has to be in the locked position in order for self clean to work. No worries.”

“I’m telling you,” he said more emphatically,  “the self cleaning mode is turned on. The arm is in the locked position.”

Now mind you, I’m the cook in the family and my husband had operated the appliance maybe once since we moved in, so I confess, I was somewhat dismissive of his position.

“And you’ve cleaned this oven how many times?” I said, ” I know what I’m talking about. Don’t worry.”

At this point, all the signs were evident to the average male bystander that I had unknowingly thrown down some kind of challenge. Clearly this aspect of the male psyche completely eludes me as evidenced by what followed next.

“I’ll prove it to you.” And with that, he threw the self-cleaning arm into the locked position and I watched, horrified, as the oven’s temperature began to climb. I slowly turned to him.

“Are you sure about that?” my words cutting like a knife.

I went over to the bar they had set up and poured myself some bourbon. I watched as he tried to throw the arm into reverse. Nada. Nothin’ doin’. You see oven manufacturers design this special mode with a locking mechanism for a reason. Because the oven gets so hot it incinerates everything inside. It would be problematic if anyone could just, say, open it.

I watched as he pushed every possible combination of buttons on the control panel. I watched him as he took a metal hanger and tried to shove it between the control panel and the locking mechanism in order to trip the latch that kept it firmly in its place. I calmly suggested to him that before he too became incinerated he might want to flip the switch on the electrical panel that controlled the kitchen.

I took a long drink of my bourbon and looked both he and my brother in the eyes and declared, “I don’t care what you do but you better find a way to get that turkey out of that oven. This is NOT happening on my first Thanksgiving.”

I walked back upstairs, sedating myself with bourbon, trying to maintain reason, calm…

A little while later I came back downstairs, having gotten dressed and dried my hair. I walked into the kitchen to find my raw, uncooked turkey on the counter. I looked at the two of them who were grinning ear to ear as a result of their accomplishment. Almost like golden retrievers who have dropped a dead animal at your feet.

And speaking of feet, I glanced down at the floor and found oven parts. In fact, as I looked around, it became clear that they had dismantled the entire oven, bolt by bolt, in order to free my Thanksgiving hostage.

I walked over to the bourbon. I put both of my hands down on the counter and bowed my head. No, I wasn’t praying, I was simply breathing deeply between my clenched teeth. I poured myself another one and turned around to face them.

“Our guests are arriving in two hours and there’s a raw turkey on the counter and an oven in pieces. What exactly do you expect me to serve?”

“We could go out?” my husband suggested tentatively.

“MY FIRST THANKSGIVING!!!! What? There’s not enough drama in your family you have to create some in ours? You find a way to get that turkey back in my oven.”

And I walked out again.

I sat on the edge of our bed trying to come up with some kind of contingency plan. Had I been a more accomplished cook I might have been able to problem-solve an alternative. Maybe the bourbon was contributing to my lack of clarity as well.  A kind of panic was setting in. Additionally, having eaten virtually nothing on the big day (you know, saving up or making room for all that food I was going to consume) I’m sure I was getting drunk and angry — a lovely combination for any new hostess. “I’m sure nothing redolent of Martha,” I muttered.

I took a deep breath, steadied myself and headed back downstairs, trying to think of sandwich combinations I could serve…

There was my oven, on, and with a turkey roasting inside. Both men were now doing their fair share of drinking and strangely, neither of them could quite look me in the eye. Shame, I’m sure, I thought. Embarrassment and guilt, no doubt.

I increased the temperature of the oven in order to make up for the lost roasting time and prayed that this compensation would not be the ruination of my reputation.

The guests arrived. Appetizers were served. Drinks were flowing. Finally, the moment of truth arrived, I held my breath, and everyone complemented the cook profusely for a delicious turkey and wonderful Thanksgiving meal. Was that relief I saw in the eyes of my sibling? My spouse?

I could have done without the drama and the uncertainty. I was exhausted by the time everyone left. My husband and brother congratulated each other but again, avoided conversing with me. I put the children to bed and laid down. I was too tired to reflect on their strange behavior, let alone, tackle kitchen clean up.

I awoke the next day, determined to address the kitchen. But first, coffee. I’m not a morning person and caffeine is absolutely necessary. I’m told that if you find me sipping my first cup, I’m actually hugging my mug. Cupping it with my hands and inhaling the aroma. I know for a fact it helps my eyes come into focus and I looked around the kitchen, truly, for the first time that morning. The usual pots, pans, dishes, etc. were evident, but there was something at the far end of the counter I had not noticed before.

It seems that putting the oven back together was harder than taking it apart. There, off to the side, were a pile of oven parts…

The first trip I wanted to write about has become known in our family as the Great Northern Swing. Dad had a flair for elevating these trips to a kind of epic stature which began with meticulous planning. Mind you this is pre-computing and required research from various sources including the public library, the triple “A” as well as writing to the various parks themselves for information and literature.

My memories of this trip starts with a stop in Pierre, South Dakota (I think we were having car problems and needed to hop off the main highway) where I remember the curiosity of seeing a “cowboy” for the first time (ie. real men walking around in real cowboy boots and hats, “hot”), tons of pickup trucks with rifles mounted across the back windshield, and American Indians (also “hot”) with long braids walking around like all the other cowboys, going about their day. Up to this point, my travel had been limited to Philadelphia where all my relatives lived, little was unfamiliar or “hot.” It was as if having stepped out of my car from the midwest, I stepped into a different world, Pierre, South Dakota and got just a taste of the unexplored country to come.

Then it was onto Rushmore where everything seemed uphill and the Badlands which looked more like the surface of the moon. The contrast in scenery as we motored westward was like nothing I had seen before except for pictures in a National Geographic. Our energy and enthusiasm were pretty high. It was the first leg of our big trip and the whole family was really into the vast views and majesty of the land unfolding before us, reading from our tour books and the literature Dad had sent for.

We motored on to Yellowstone to reconnoiter with my Aunt Sally & Uncle Leo and cousins Lee and Jonathan, who were big campers. They lived in California and little did we know then, these reunions would become the template for our annual trips as we often met them each summer for a different park experience. At Yellowstone we combined our tents with their camper to create a base camp and set off exploring the park. I remember the geysers and hot springs and discovering that park rangers were “hot.”

We took a day trip up to the Tetons. I remember pulling over to eat the lunch we had packed and the boys couldn’t wait to skip stones on the lake. The next thing I knew they were in the water goading me to get in. I, of course, did not want to get wet but I was anxious to cool off, so the shoes came off and I waded in.

that's me dancing, in jenny lake

It was spectacular, cool, with smooth rocks underfoot. I remember one of the rangers in the Ken Burn’s documentary talking about being one with nature and I immediately remembered that moment in Jenny Lake. From a distance it was so beautiful, reflecting the surrounding mountains and fluffy clouds and up close, so clear with a tint of green blue. I immediately gave into the welcome of water and ventured further from the edge until I was completely submerged. The sun was warm and I danced and splashed in the water with abandon. I didn’t care that my clothes were soaking wet. I sat on the rocks and dried in the warm sun.

During this trip we went fishing and I caught my first fish. It was a short-lived triumph as my father insisted I hold the fish for a picture. Of course, it was still alive, slimy and therefore difficult to hold. I remember the indignation mixed with nausea of trying to hold this fish while my dad was laughing too hard to hold the camera steady.

We had all caught trout that morning and my aunt prepared them for breakfast in an iron skillet and I remember the taste of that fish for breakfast. It was no less astonishing that I was eating fish for breakfast but wonderful at the same time, because that trout was buttery and crispy and delicious.

Later that day my brother had inexplicably locked our car keys in the trunk of our car. In the middle of the Grand Tetons, finding a locksmith was no easy task. Mind you, no cell phones at this point, so Dad and Uncle Leo had to find a ranger and then travel to a park office to make a phone call to have a locksmith from Jackson Hole come out. It took the better part of our day. He was unsuccessful at picking the trunk lock, but he managed to get us into the car and from there, they ripped out the back bench in order to get to the trunk.

Of course, this was not according to the grand plan and Dad’s vein that traveled down his right temple was famously throbbing. My brother always seemed to provide some drama on trips and this was no exception. Once put back together, the adults decided it was a good night for a dinner out and we headed into Jackson Hole and found ourselves at a famous watering hole with lots of cowboys and dead animal heads mounted to the wall — something else I had never seen before either. I wasn’t too sure how I felt about it.

It was finally time to part company and say good bye to the relatives and head back home. As we made our way eastward we encountered massive storms and flooding around eastern South Dakota and Minnesota which culminated in water flooding into our motel room as well as an extensive detour that caused our arrival home to be delayed by a day and caused my father great consternation and exasperation. The tail end of this trip was more than my control freak of a father was able to bear. Would the tradition continue? Stay tuned.

dialated to 10

The doctor was kinda talking to herself, murmuring really. Checking her notes from my last annual violation.

“uh huh, mmm hmmm, a couple centimeters I think…”

My mind is elsewhere. I’m doing my deep breathing exercises and wondering if we can just get this over with. Now mind you my ass (which has reached an unflattering middle-aged flabbiness) is hanging out of an ugly hospital gown and over the edge of an examination table, sock covered feet in the stirrups, my eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling, while I try to concentrate on anything but the doctor’s usual … “you’re going to feel something cold and then some pressure …”, but wait a minute, did she mention measurements? The last time I was measured in my nether regions was 1991, cervix dilated to 10, just before I delivered Erica. What the hell?

The doc continued to dictate to the nurse, “yep, she’s dropped 2-3 centimeters since her last exam.”

My brain is attempting to comprehend these words.

“Dropped…dropped…what exactly has dropped? What’s dropping down there?” comprehension is eluding me still but alarm has set in.

“Why your uterus, of course,” the doc said in a very matter of fact tone.

“My uterus” I said slowly, still staring at the ceiling. “My uterus, has dropped, 2-3 centimeters…”

My head snapped forward as I peered at her from between my bent hairy knees catching a glimpse of her red head (yes, I forgot (suppressed?) I had the appointment and didn’t shave, just who among us hasn’t?)

“A uterus can drop?” asked the bewildered and indignant patient. “Is that a bad thing? Will it drop some more…could it… could it… fall out?” and in my thoughts, not wishing to share, “What the hell? on top of everything else — sagging ass and boobs, gray hair, wrinkles, and I’ve got a dropping uterus? What next? incontinence?”

The doc tried to maintain professional objectivity but was clearly suppressing a good laugh.

“Age and gravity gets the best of us, but you could do some kegel exercises…”

“Kegel exercises, are you kidding me?! I haven’t heard that since I delivered Erica. I thought it was a joke then…”

I decided to investigate this further on my own and in private…according to the Mayo Clinic, the technical term for a “dropping uterus” is Uterine Prolapse and is defined as follows…

“Uterine prolapse means your uterus has descended from its position in the pelvis farther down into your vagina.”

You can be asymptomatic or your symptoms may include:

* Sensation of heaviness or pulling in your pelvis (okay, we’ve all been here, no biggie)
* Tissue protruding from your vagina (…ARE YOU KIDDING ME!)
* Urinary difficulties, such as urine leakage or urge incontinence (as predicted, see above)
* Trouble having a bowel movement (the perennial complaint of my father-in-law)
* Low back pain (again, we’ve all been here)
* Feeling as if you’re sitting on a small ball or as if something is falling out of your vagina (shoot me, you just can’t make this shit up)
* Symptoms that are less bothersome in the morning and worsen as the day goes on

As I contemplate my fate of epic proportions I’m wondering where the sisters are? Why haven’t I heard of this before? I’ve heard the commiserations about hot flashes and dry vaginas, but never this!

I bet Angelina Jolie isn’t going to have to deal with uterine prolapse…not after all those cesareans. But me, no, I had to push mine out the pioneer way… the way God had intended babies be delivered, thru my vajayjay. Who knew I had to be worried about the tone of my pelvic muscles. I didn’t have time to worry about the tone of ANY of my muscles chasing after the kids and running a business. I considered it a good day when I was wearing clean underwear.

I got out my retractable tape measure which I usually used for planning renovation projects — ahhh the irony does not elude me…

uterous -3 and counting

2-3 cm — just exactly what are we talking about here … that’sssss not sooo bad. As I pondered my fate, I wondered if I should share this information with my loved ones, gal pals, husband … then again, maybe not.

But ladies, let this be a lesson to you — do your kegel exercises or the next time you see your OB/GYN she might meet you at the exam table with a ruler…

postscript: as a 47 year old working mother of two, currently residing in the heartland, I realize I have no business using the term “honey pot” or “vajayjay” for that matter. In fact, my 20 & 18 year old daughters were so horrified to learn what I had entitled the post (or as they refer to it “TMI about my mother,”) they suggested I adopt a nom do plume. And so I did.